


blue monday

by serotinal



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:57:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18368363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serotinal/pseuds/serotinal
Summary: Delphine is unguarded, but Lorraine is a kingdom with three layers of security and a bubbling moat.





	blue monday

Delphine gets the spy business—she gets the spy business from vintage spy thriller films set in the ‘50s on flickering television screens; gets the spy business from tattered books she finds residing at the back of the bookstore, a full column, lurking behind the usual shiny paperbacks of young-adult romance and comedy genres. And the classics, of course, never forget the classics. The books in the secondhand store she used to frequent were wet at the edges, some words blurred, and specked with the type of dirt— dust, people call it, the type that collects and smogs and submerges over time.

But that’s all Delphine ever got the spy business from. She skipped out on special training because hand-to-hand combat wasn’t her ‘necessary skill’, the French Associates had decided, tiding her over with the bare minimum. Delphine Lasalle, their newest agent, was to be trained in persuasion, photography and stalking. The not-so dirty work, they had used to persuade her— _pft_ , one of her skills, you’d think she was better versed—it wasn’t dirty because you got less blood on your hands, you got to keep an unscarred face for a longer time, but that wasn’t showbiz in the spy world. Not silencing your footsteps against the asphalt just so you can watch targets disappear beyond closed doors and wait in bitter cold until they emerge, once more.

So when she finds herself, backed against cement walls, heels hurting her feet and breath bated as she stared at the dangerously gorgeous blonde before her—it doesn’t come as a surprise that she’s here, in this predicament— _situation?_ Delphine looks at her own gun, pointed to her forehead, an inch or two away, and strangely doesn’t feel threatened. _I’d die by her hand_ , Delphine knows it for sure, _without qualms._

But Delphine also knows the only reason why this certain calmness exists within her is because she knows Lorraine Broughton, MI6 Agent from the KGB, has an unthreatening side. Lorraine Broughton, who, unlike Delphine, has been through the dirtiest situations, has gotten blood splattered over her every inch of skin, has hurt, fought and killed almost a million people whom she’s had to, and some she hasn’t had to.

“Why the gun, Delphine?”

_Questions._ Questions that made Delphine want to answer them; but Delphine is so open, so raw, at this point that she knows any question from Lorraine is going to bring a landslide. And it does.

In a voice that doesn’t sound spy-like or mature or dangerous at all, Delphine tells her story in brief, trembling sentences. The tension in the air lessens when both of them realise for the first time that _fuck_ , they don’t want to hurt each other. This isn’t a cat-and-mouse game like the past minutes, hours, days in Berlin ( _Do they know simply how tiring it is to keep running, hiding, and hitting back? They both do_ ). _What the fuck?_

Lorraine’s face is a work of art that doesn’t flinch: It blinks, it smirks, it creases in the same places every person’s does. But it doesn’t flinch. There isn’t a single shred of fear or doubt that Delphine can see in Lorraine’s eyes. All she sees is a barricade, a tough, brick-built wall that doesn’t come down with a single push from the correct person, like Delphine’s does. Delphine is unguarded, but Lorraine is a kingdom with three layers of security and a bubbling moat.

And, a work of art? _She bloody fucking is._

So Lorraine watches, with the defences behind her eyes cracking in the least bit, a little crack along the perimeter. She laughs, sounding derisive on the surface, a throaty _‘You should’ve become a poet,’_ being shot in Delphine’s direction. Delphine takes to it with a grin that subsides her tears, followed by a resigned laugh that comes with Lorraine’s second sentence. _‘Or a rockstar.’_ Then the tension begins to build because laughter and tears are supposed to mean nothing in a spy’s world—they don’t even exist here, nothing genuine. But here they are, somewhere along the fault lines, breaking rules that are ingrained, tattooed into their skin, engraved in their brains. Emblazoned with fire and tantalising pain.

The tension becomes so palpable in the air that it feels like electric currents dancing amongst the neon lighting and stark darkness. Lorraine can hardly see anything except Delphine’s shiny, dark orbs staring back at her; and Delphine sees nothing but the whitish blonde hair that normally means death for so many, but for her, it doesn’t. Delphine Lasalle, agent 521, lets herself feel a little more than she’s ever had in her twenty-eight years of living before the smell of Armani perfume is almost suffocating her.

Lorraine feels lust spring at her from somewhere deep within where the reigns are starting to loosen and the tides come undone; Lorraine feels a type of vulnerability she had left somewhere behind with James Gascoigne’s grave; Lorraine feels the sickeningly familiar yet overwhelming tug of something more. So she surges forward, believing that this is the right and correct move to execute. A French agent could give her so much intel, so much insight into deeper waters. As if Lorraine isn’t in deep enough water already—we’re talking Pacific Oceans, not city drains. But Lorraine knows Delphine knows nothing, yet she’s still here, with her mouth open and raw against Delphine’s, desire breaking free from their strains and clawing down Delphine’s back, clawing under her leathered clothes. Delphine is arching into her, and they begin to dance according to a different, unique melody.

Maybe for the first time in Lorraine Broughton’s life she doesn’t _fucking_ want intel. 

**Author's Note:**

> i just had to talk about this moment... you feel me


End file.
